


Picking Up The Pieces

by Grundy



Series: Daughters of Celebrían [11]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Challenge Response, Halls of Mandos, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, SWG Challenge: Just An Old-Fashioned Love Song
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2018-12-08 17:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11650971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: After the Fall of Gondolin, Maeglin's more than a little broken. Is there any hope for him?





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

> When I first saw "Closer" as one of the song prompts for SWG's Just An Old-Fashioned Love Song challenge , I thought 'that's not a love song...' Then I went over the lyrics and it hit me that while it's not exactly a love song, it is very much Maeglin post-Gondolin. At least, as I imagine him - and I may owe him an apology, because I think I did far worse to him than Tolkien did. (But I'm giving him a happier ending.) While it doesn't start out as a love story, it will get there eventually!

He’s not sure how long he’s been here, with nothing but his memories for company. It’s far too dark here, in the deepest parts of Angband, for him to have anything like Rana and Vasa or even the stars to help him keep time.

He probably doesn’t want to know, anyway. It’s been long since time had any particular meaning for him. He’s under no illusion why he’s been left his memories – now that his body is so broken that it can no longer register pain, what else is left for Bauglir and his creature Gorthaur to torment him with?

Those memories that might have been a comfort to him are gone, buried so deep he cannot call them up anymore. He does not remember his mother’s face or voice, the songs she had once sung, or even the touch of her hand. Home is gone, as is Doriath, for while he knew that he had been there in his youth, but he cannot recall it, bound up with his mother as it was. It is as if it has all been sponged away, leaving him conscious only of the empty spaces where it ought to have been.

But there are so many other memories, all lovingly left completely intact to remind him of how unworthy of his kin he is, how badly he has failed those dearest to him.

He tried not to whimper as it hit him all over again.

He must keep quiet if he was to remain unnoticed.

\---

He was exhausted, utterly spent with the effort to regain some degree of mastery of his hroä.

The longer Gorthaur had worn him like a puppet, the harder it had become to free himself for even a moment. Of late, he has not been able to beat back his tormentor’s will for more than a second or two. For a while, he had been able to force the reunion of fëa and hroä whilst at work in the forge – he had even been able to manage one last work of his own before that too had been taken from him.

Calaliltië was the last thing he would ever make, he had known that even as he had set the name on the blade and put what light and hope he still had to offer into the letters. _She_ will find it someday. Bauglir may twist the Music, but he cannot unmake it entirely.  Even if the Dark One kills her as he has laughingly promised to do, that sword will still play its part in his downfall. The last tengwar on it are a prayer that it do Belegurth as much damage as his grandfather’s Ringil had and more.

But satisfying as that knowledge had been – and it had been sweet, for he had felt Gorthaur’s rage at being unable to hinder him – he wished he had saved some last reserve for the final struggle. He should have seen this coming.

Bauglir’s right hand was using his body to attack his own kin.

His little nephew Eärendil dangled over the edge of the city wall in his hands, yet it was as if he watched it through someone else’s eyes. The boy looked more confused than frightened, certain that his beloved uncle would never let him fall – and indeed, had it been his uncle in control, the child would be in no danger.

But his uncle is a weak, broken thing no longer even close to a match for the dread maia.

The best he can manage is to make his body stumble, react slower than it should, clumsy and unwieldy, as if the puppet’s strings had tangled. That does him no good now, not with his nephew about to be dashed on the rocks as once his father had been, and Itarillë’s panicked screams ringing in his ears.

And then – PAIN.

Gorthaur’s control faltered in his surprise, only a split second, but that was all Lomion needed, all that was required to throw Eärendil to safety, to turn to face Tuor.

After that, any hope of affecting the outcome of the fight was gone forever, for Lomion’s fëa was utterly flattened by the maia’s fury at being both injured and thwarted.

Lomion did not know why Gorthaur or Bauglir should wish the child dead, but it must be for some purpose beyond merely hurting him – they were far too angry for that to be their only goal.

He could feel every blow Tuor landed on his hroä, for Gorthaur’s wrath has if anything only increased. If he cannot kill Itarillë and Eärendil, he will make Lomion pay in blood and misery for that small victory. Gradually, the pain began to lessen, and Lomion understood it was a sign his hroä was weakening, that it could not be long now before the end. He rejoiced at the thought.

He did not think Tuor actually needed to push him, when it came to it. Even animated by the savage will of Gorthaur, an elven body could sustain only so much damage before it would no longer respond. He stumbled, and fell.

As the ground rushed toward him, he felt no fear, only relief.

That was when a veritable tidal wave of malice burst over him.

_You think, little fool, that I will allow you to die so easily? It does not end here._

That was the last thing he knew before pain exploded throughout his battered hroä as it met the rocks.

His final coherent thought before the darkness took him was that ada had been right.

\---

The next thing he knew, he was being drawn into a vast hall. It was not a part of Angband he recognized, but that signified nothing. He had seen little of Morgoth’s stronghold beyond the inside of the cell where he was kept.

The odd light was off-putting, as was the utter lack of feeling in his body. It seemed Gorthaur had finally overestimated the limits of what he could subject a prisoner to. As broken as he knew himself to be, there should have been pain beyond measure. But he felt _nothing_ – not even the air around him, or the floor below him.

That is, he felt nothing physical. It turned out that he could still feel emotions, for when the Dark Vala suddenly appeared before him and called him by name in a voice that seemed to come from the very depths of Arda, he felt utter and total terror.

Why could he not have _died_? What foul and unnatural art had Gorthaur used to prevent his fëa fleeing a body so broken? They had been promised that beyond death was at least a hope of mercy and rebirth, and reunion with their kin. Now he had not even that to cling to anymore.

He did not expect it to avail him much, but with nothing left to lose – dignity, pride, and hope were all gone – he fled. He dashed franticly past his captor and let instinct guide him away from the light, down into the deepest, darkest part of the fortress.

Bauglir may boast, but for all his power, he has not forgotten Ungoliant. He feared the dark as much as any of the Children.

Voices called after Lomion, but he recognized their kind – more maiar. They might not be as terrible as Gorthaur – in truth, he did not think any but Bauglir himself could be as terrible as Gorthaur – but he did not wish to find out.

He stopped running only when the deep tunnel he followed dead ended in a darkness so profound he could not even see his hand in front of his face.

And in that comforting concealment, he curled up and silently wept for all that he had lost.

\---

For a time, he thought himself safe. He was hidden away, deeper than even orcs would venture without their masters driving them with chain or whip.

Several times he heard voices – sometimes they even contrived to sound fair, as though he would be fooled that the Belain or their loyal servants would ever venture here. Once there was a voice of an elleth whispering to him, bringing with it the memory of stars and trees. He had nearly answered before he remembered that it was one of Gorthaur’s favorite sports to set new captives against older, more damaged ones, the better to toy with them.

He had curled up, rocking himself in the dark. He might have cast through his mind for memories of his mother, but she was the one thing the Enemy had not succeeded in using against him.

Even his One had been turned into a weapon to wound him with, one more tool to break him.

\---

“Do you never think about marriage?” Itarillë asked.

They were laying in the grass by one of the more distant streams, almost as far from the city as they could get while still within Tumladen. He had been swimming earlier, but his cousin found the water too chilly and would only dip her feet or wade occasionally.

“Sometimes,” Lomion answered. “It does not seem an immediate concern, though.”

She hissed in exaperation.

“It might be if you would ever wake up to the idea that Rosalmiel is not the only nis in the city who is interested in you, merely the most forward!”

“She is not _that_ forward,” he protested weakly, feeling oddly as though he ought to defend her handmaiden’s honor.

“Yet you are as awkward as an adolescent whenever she tries to flirt with you,” Itarillë sniffed. “If it is not that you consider her too bold-”

“I do not,” Lomion replied firmly, wishing to nip this idea in the bud. “But not having grown up among the Noldor as you did, I am never entirely certain what is acceptable and what is too encouraging. The ways of my father’s people are different, and I do not wish to give false hope, or embarrass your father by behaving in a way that might seem to your people as if I were merely toying with the ladies.”

Itarillë’s pout was magnificent.

“You are so certain that none of the nissi here are for you?” she said in disappointment. “There are elleth among us also, if you would not take a Noldorin bride…”

“It is not that I object to the idea of any of the nissi,” he began soothingly, but his cousin pounced on the hint with the glee of a cat who has finally caught a particularly troublesome mouse.

“You have someone in mind,” she cried, sounding as delighted as if a wedding were imminent.

He covered his face. She was going to be impossible about this, he just knew it.

“It is nothing,” he tried, knowing she was unlikely to be put off.

“Oh? How did you meet this nothing of yours? And where? Do you think she waits for you, though you have been hidden away here and unable to give her any sign?”

He tried silence, but it didn’t last long, for she showed every sign of waiting him out – or worse, for the look on her face gave away that she was considering tickling him until he surrendered the information.

 “I have not met her yet, in point of fact.”

Itarillë’s brows rose toward the heavens.

“Now you _have_ to tell me all,” she said expectantly. “That is far too intriguing – it would be downright mean to hold back!”

He sighed.

“It is a bit embarrassing, really. You’ve heard how mothers may have special insight into the fate of their newborn children?”

She nodded.

“Of course. Several of our kin were given amilessë tercenyë.”

“Ammë did not bestow on me a name of foresight, thank Elbereth for small mercies, but apparently she did have a vision on the day I was born.”

Itarillë looked to be on tenterhooks.

“She told not only my father, but her cousin who had been with her for the birth, that I would marry Galadriel’s daughter.”

Itarillë convulsed with laughter for a moment before she realized he was serious.

“You are not joking?” she spluttered. “But Aunt _Artanis_ – I mean _Galadriel_? Begetting a child? It seems of all things unlikely.”

He shrugged.

“I don’t know, I think if Morgoth were ever defeated, she might.”

She glanced at him keenly.

“You are not so fanciful as to think that just because your mother said it when you were newly born it must be so.”

Lomion dropped his eyes to the ground for a few moments before answering. Itarillë would not laugh again if he confessed the truth, would she?

“I have also dreamt of her from time to time,” he admitted.

She was all astonishment.

“Truly? What does she look like, this daughter of Artanis and Celeborn?”

 _The sun,_ he thought but did not say.

“More Vanyarin or Lindarin than Sindarin,” he replied wryly. “Her hair will be a match for yours easily, and her complexion is definitely from the Amanyar, not the Moriquendi. Anyone might recognize she is Galadriel’s by her height and her expressions, but oddly enough, her face puts me in mind of another.”

“Oh?”

“You are not to laugh, but if I did not know her to be of the Eldar, I would think her kin to Tuor.”

Itarillë’s cheeks darkened slightly at that, but she did not rise to the perceived bait.

“In truth,” Lomion told her, “I find the dreams rather reassuring.”

“How so?” she asked. “For you know as well as I that she has not yet been begotten, which means you can have no hope of marriage for many years yet.”

“That may be true,” Lomion said with a smile, “but that I know her to be my mate with such certainty gives me hope that we will survive beyond leaving Gondolin, and live to see the Enemy defeated.”

Itarillë’s look at that was radiant.

\---

Gorthaur had found that memory. Found it, seen the face of Galadriel’s shining daughter, and recognized her for who and what she was.

He had laughed long, and Lomion had known utter dread at the sound.

“Oh, foolish little elf. She will _never_ be yours. This I promise you. It does not matter if it takes an age or more – I will find her and deliver her to my master, and he will destroy her. Congratulations, Maeglin Eölion, you have killed your own mate, just as your father before you. Your refusal to speak when commanded has sealed her fate.”

He had been sifting through his captive’s memories long by that point, poking, prodding, using what he could to cause pain, fear, and doubt.

And ever again, the question was repeated.

“Where is Turukano’s city, slave?”

At first he had focused on the ‘slave’, objecting fiercely that he was no one’s slave, least of all Bauglir’s. He had understood at once how to keep the location hidden. He had locked away all memories of his mother, burying them so deep in his fëa that to reach for them would not just break him, but kill him. Death would be his insurance.

For he had trod the Hidden Way in her company, and had been there but once only in accordance with his uncle’s law. It mattered not that to hide away all knowledge of his mother meant to erase his childhood completely, and most of his youth. His life now began in Gondolin, when Itarillë first smiled at him in delight and offered to show him the city while their parents spoke of what would become of his family now.

\---

The memories left to him may be painful, but being alone with his thoughts was no better. It occurred to him when he had not been in the dark very long that it was possible that he had become an orc.

No one knew how exactly they had been made, after all – but his father’s people had known full well that they had been elves in the beginning, taken and turned into a mockery of what they had once been, driven to every form of cruelty and depravity by the will of their master.

Once the question had formed in his mind, he had been relieved to not be able to see himself. He did not know what he would do if he discovered that his pale Sindarin skin had turned grey-brown and mottled as that of the glamhoth. He had no doubt that after his long fall, his face was mutilated enough.

At least he has managed not to be sent out to kill or kidnap his own kind. By hiding himself, he has at least done that much. One less orc to threaten his people. He had no choice but to remain where he was. He may have a will of his own again, but he knew that would be true only so long as Gorthaur and Belegurth did not find him.

He would have prayed for death had he thought it would do any good. But he understood now that with the Doom of the Noldor, even that was hopeless. The Valar would have no pity on a half-Noldo maybe-orc.

\---

Far above, in the hall Maeglin had fled from when he first arrived, Nienna took counsel with her brother, who feared that Maeglin Irission would never depart his Halls, for two Ages later he had yet to understand that he was within them.


	2. Mandos

Once Tindomiel had left, taking all three of her kinsmen with her, both the living and the dead, the lord of Mandos frowned.

It did not require the foresight of a Vala to know she would return.

This had not been her first visit. But previously she had contented herself with simply exploring, and occasionally engaging the fëar of the dead in conversation if they would. She had never done any harm – actually, most of the souls in his care seemed better for speaking with her.

He had not expected that she would be so bold as to attempt to remove one of them – though once she had proposed it, he had known it was within her power.

The source of that power still puzzled him. Her kin put it down to an inheritance from Luthien, but the flavor of it had nothing of his kinswoman Melian. Knowing as he did that Tindomiel had come into being in the world of California, he supposed her power was in some way tied to that strange place.

That Tindomiel had taken Ambarato Aikanaro with her was something of a relief. Namo would have returned him to life – and his brother with him – yeni ago. It had been the child’s own choice to refuse, a choice the vala was bound to respect, no matter that it affected more than just Ambarato himself.

He had every hope that Angarato would desire a swift return to living now that his stubborn younger brother had been removed from the Halls – and eventually his son, law-daughter and granddaughter would follow.

 _Namo_ had been bound to respect Ambarato’s choice. Ambarato’s strong-willed grandniece had not offered him any choice, she had simply acted.

Oddly, the Judge was certain that the youngest son of Arafinwë would not return to the Halls. He would discover enough to anchor his fëa to life with something to focus on other than his longing for the adaneth who should have been his mate.

The lord of Mandos had been far more reluctant to allow the second soul to be removed from his keeping, but Tindomiel understood what hazard she took upon herself with him, and thought it worthwhile all the same. Not that he had held any real expectation she would change her mind – the half-elven were tenacious, and in Namo’s experience, seemed to reckon danger differently than the rest of Arda. Tindomiel might not be as extreme as her sister, but she _was_ peredhel.

He only hoped the girl did not intend to continue removing fëar on future trips – the Arafinwions were one thing, but the vast majority of the souls in his care remained there because they were not yet ready to return to life.

But she might be useful in a different way…

Mandos moved through his Halls in thought – though in truth, very few of the Children would have perceived it as moving. He did not dare draw too close to the place one particular soul had chosen to secret itself away. His longstanding problem Child.

Curufinwë Fëanaro, obdurate as he might be, had been the simplest of puzzles compared to Maeglin Lomion.

The boy had entered the Halls broken and terrified, and Namo had realized too late that his voice reminded the young one much too powerfully of the only other Vala he had ever encountered. Nor were the maiar of the Halls any less distressing to the boy after what Mairon had done to him.

Maeglin had fled his presence, and if he recognized any approach by maia or vala, he would retreat further still into the deepest parts of the Halls. Even Nienna’s gentle voice and unobstrusive attempt to draw him out only frightened him the more.

Namo had never before encountered a soul that sought to hide itself away completely, much less one that did not understand that all pain and torment of the mortal lands was now in their past. The vast majority of Melkor’s victims experienced death as a release. He had discovered to his disgust that even those poor souls who had been begotten as orc looked forward with hope and excitement to an existence better than the one death had ended.

The eldest of their kind had _much_ to answer for, the state of Maeglin Lomion’s fëa not the least.

Maeglin had sought the darkest parts of the halls, normally scarcely inhabited – and even then, generally only briefly by the fëar of recently arrived former orcs. But they rarely lingered long, moving swiftly toward different parts of the Halls, drawn to light and company. They had no reason to return once they discovered that light no longer hurt them and the souls of their kindred did not recoil or react with fear or hate at their approach as they would have in life.

Indeed, the sojourn of former orcs in his realm was by now quite predictable, and aside from the time when they had to come to terms with whatever dark deeds they had done at their master’s bidding, as a rule quite happy. He always felt a deep satisfaction whenever he was able to release one of them, and found their joy at the prospect of new life brought him joy also.

The Children who had not ever had to endure life as orc-kind never ventured here. They found it disturbing, even frightening. Total darkness was not something they had ever known, for Varda’s stars had been created long before the Quendi awoke at Cuiviénen.

To this one battered, broken soul, that darkness was comfort – for it was solitude and concealment, the closest to safety he was capable of imagining anymore. But the Child would never heal if he remained there, nor be able to return to his kin as he ought.

Indeed, his family already were disturbed by his absence. Those within the Halls had been most upset not to be able to discover anything of him as time wore on. It had been quite uncomfortable by the end of the Second Age, with not only Maeglin’s parents, but all of his uncles, his grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-uncle demanding to know where he was. (Under any other circumstances, Thingol and Nolofinwë agreeing on anything would have been amusing, as they still cordially detested each other.)

But while it was possible that they might have been able to bring him out of his hiding place were Namo to tell them, he felt it was much more likely the boy would only flee again – and if his kin failed to draw him out, the problem would be worse than ever. He had already failed once in an attempt to bring Maeglin out of hiding.

He had hoped that perhaps the Broideress might be able to help – for Míriel Þerindë was the only one of her people to have returned to life but not to the living. She dwelt with Vairë, and knew of the fate of Indis’ great-grandson. She had agreed to speak to Maeglin, if he would hear her.

Yet even she found the darkness overpowering. Though she pressed on as bravely as her son or once husband could have, she had been able to come only close enough for Maeglin to hear her voice as a whisper from far away. That whisper had frightened him anew, and he had curled more tightly in on himself – if he had still had a hroä, the Children would have recognized his posture as the fetal position.

After that, Namo could not trust that a small herd of relatives, however well meaning, would be any help to the child. Nor did he think Maeglin would believe they were kin – after all that had been wrought on him in Angband, he was more likely to think even the voice of his own mother only another cruel trick.

“Each fëa must heal in its own way, and in its own time,” Namo told Finwë and Thingol sternly when he could avoid their questions no longer.

He suspected that the Nolofinwions subsequently remaining stubbornly in the Halls long after they might have returned to life was some oblique form of protest.

He had finally persuaded Nolofinwë to have pity on his wife Anairë, and to think on the fact that the time was approaching when the last of his surviving elven descendants would arrive from Endórë. Turukano’s wife Elenwë had been restored to life at the beginning of the Third Age, and his father’s departure made him restless – to the point that his older brother and sister had both told him bluntly that while they had reasons to stay, he did not. The prospect of the imminent arrival of his grandson’s son and grandchildren had been enough incentive for Turukano to finally give in.

His siblings kept their vigil. But Tindomiel, while too refreshingly honest to truly be termed ‘devious’, had multiple goals on this last visit – and Namo, had he not needed to focus on sternness to impress on her the seriousness of removing a son of Fëanor from the Halls, would have commended her thinking in bringing Nolofinwë’s youngest son with her that his older brothers might see him.

Only Findekano had spoken with him, but that would likely be enough. Namo had every hope he would soon be rid of Arakano. Findekano would consent to leave once he knew that Nelyafinwë would also be permitted to return – assurance Namo could not yet give with certainty, but had not much longer to wait on. A mortal lifetime fast rushing to a close was but a short time…

Irissë would leave if he son did. Again, it came back to the problem of Maeglin.

Tindomiel might be just the person to solve it. Unlike other Eldar, she could bring light with her to the parts of the Halls where Maeglin hid – light, and warmth, and the sound of something that was clearly _not_ Angband, for her fëa sang of things Melkor and his creatures had not known and even Mairon had never dreamed. _The light of another sun_ , the girl had called it the first time they met, when Namo had been trying to puzzle out her Music.

That, he had since come to realize, was not all of it, but it was explanation enough.

After three ages of Arda, a few years should have made no difference one way or the other, yet having finally found a real prospect for healing Maeglin, the lord of Mandos found himself nearly as impatient as a Child when Tindomiel did not swiftly return.

He did grudgingly admit that Vairë had a point when she said that Tindomiel’s kin were unlikely to let her go roaming again so quickly after having brought back Morifinwë and Ambarato. ( _Very_ grudgingly. Her amusement was wholly uncalled for.)

But when next he heard Tindomiel entering the Halls, he was prepared.

He led her a merry chase. What precisely she was chasing, Tindomiel did not know, but she knew there was _something_ interesting, and she was curious by nature, so she followed.

It helped that there was something of a resonance between her fëa and Maeglin’s – although Namo suspected it would have been stronger between Maeglin and Anariel. (For some reason, the part of his own spirit that was his wife’s echoed with mirth at that observation. He thought it quite unfair that she would not explain.)

He finally left Tindomiel not far from where Maeglin hid. She held what looked like a ball of sunlight in her right hand – he appreciated her cleverness in redirecting just the smallest bit of the light from other parts of the Halls to where she needed it.

She was sensitive enough to know she was drawing close to another elf, and to call out.

“Hello?”

No answer, not that Namo had expected there would be one.

Tindomiel frowned.

“Who are you? Why are you down here all alone in the dark?”

Maeglin still kept silent, but he _listened._ Namo himself kept a safe distance, determined not to spook the child.

“I don’t know why you’re stashed away all by yourself, but I know you’re not Fëanor, so you can’t have done anything bad enough to deserve solitary.”

The silence continued, but it was an interested silence.

“And I know that because I’ve visited him.”

She not only visited her grandmother’s half-uncle, she grilled, mocked, and teased him mercilessly – and had consequently learned enough Quenya, Vanyarin, and even Valarin curses that if Fëanaro were ever permitted to leave the Halls, his law-sister Anairë would likely have his guts for garters.

Namo thought it odd that angry as the girl made him, Fëanaro seemed more cheerful after each visit.

“You don’t have to stay down here, you know.”

Motion!

For the first time in an Age, Maeglin had _moved_. Had he been Tindomiel, Namo would have pumped his fist in the air.

A sigh – but Tindomiel’s.

“You can stay if you want, I guess. I’m not going to make you do anything. But you’d probably feel better if you would move somewhere more normal. You should go up where it’s not so dark.”

Tindomiel’s choice of ‘down’ and ‘up’ to describe the different regions of the Halls was not in any sense physically accurate, but as normal directions didn’t really apply, they would do.

“There are lots of other elves here you could talk to. If there’s someone you don’t want to see, you can avoid them. There’s so many Evair and Lainin that it’s not hard to stay away from the Golodhrim if they still scare you.”

It helped that the girl had instinctively switched to an older Sindarin, the dialect of Doriath. Maeglin seemed to relax the more of it he heard, for it was the language of his youth.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to find my way here again. But I’ll leave something for you to follow if you decide you want to come out later.”

Tindomiel pressed her hand to the nearest wall, and it glowed green – with her finger pointing the way to the lighter part of the Halls.

She stopped several times to repeat the gesture as she retraced her steps, unaware it was not necessary, for Maeglin was following. Silently, and at a safe distance, but following.

The last time she stopped, it wasn’t a handprint she left, but words and arrows pointing the directions to the areas where the Unwilling and the ones who had been orcs tended to congregate.

Then she made her way toward her own kin, to make her somewhat delayed visit.

If Namo had hoped that Maeglin would begin to interact with other elves, he was disappointed, for the young one once again found a place to hide away – but this time, a light, airy chamber where he could hear others moving around, and from whence he sometimes observed them with signs of something that _might_ be curiosity.

Maeglin did not always cross paths with Tindomiel when she visited over the next few decades, but it happened more often than not, something seemingly drawing him to her. Each time he came a little closer.

If Maeglin spoke to anyone, it would be her, Namo realized.

And then something new occurred to him. Perhaps this soul, after all that had been done to him at the hands of a vala and a maia, could not heal within the Halls.

It was something he had never considered before, but then, what had befallen Maeglin had also never occurred before. Others before him had been tortured, and had their will overpowered by Melkor or Mairon, but never before had one of them taken possession of the hröa of a Child, leaving the fëa intact but vanquished and powerless – or deceived a Child at the moment of death into believing he was not dying.

It required some thought before Namo understood how to handle this most delicate of cases, but at last he hit on a plan.

He could not return the boy to life in the usual way. That would most likely do further harm, for the presence of Irmo and his maiar would only throw him into panic, and even if they were to call some of his kin to his side, he would not trust their reality.

No, this had to be handled very carefully, for it would require Maeglin himself to make the decision to leave.

The next time Tindomiel visited, when Maeglin lingered expectantly in the spacious atrium that Tindomiel usually used as her entrance and exit, Namo was waiting also. (There was no particular reason for Tindomiel’s preferred ‘door’– she could come and go as she pleased, but seemed to feel it more polite to use a public area. Namo was grateful that she had never attempted to enter through the gate the Rehoused were led through to leave the Halls on their return to life.)

Maeglin looked so wistfully at her as she passed through on the way to visit the Arafinwions – still in the hopes of persuading Finduilas that no one held anything against her at all – that Namo was certain of what he would do.

When Tindomiel returned, calling cheerful greetings to some of the dead she recognized, and left the Halls from her usual spot, Mandos held her door open after she departed – but only for one fëa.

Maeglin was the only one who could see the sunlight, hear the birds, and _almost_ feel the breeze. Namo waited. It was only when he finally, with a sigh, made himself obvious to undo the work of constructing that gate – for his power over his walls was not quite the same as Tindomiel’s, and while preserving her work was no great matter, undoing it took some concentration – that Maeglin, with an air of desperation, darted past him and into his new life.

As he rebuilt his wall – with the sudden foresight that Tindomiel would likely not be visiting again for some time – Namo, for the first time in many years, smiled.


	3. Release

Maeglin glanced out from his hideaway, wary as ever of being seen.

As exposed as he might feel here, he had no real cause to regret following the girl with the light. Whoever she had been, she was neither orc nor thrall. Following her had led him to a wide, spacious hall, with other elves coming and going.

As astonishing as it had been to see them, it had also been far too many people for him. After so long alone, he could no more imagine being surrounded by so many than he could imagine himself flying. He did not understand how they were there, much less how the fortress of the Enemy could be so light and fair, even if by some unforeseen chance Belegurth had at long last been defeated. Would the Belain not have ripped it down, and freed all the prisoners?

In a state of confusion, he had found a place to hide himself, a small anteroom that seemed to be long unused, from which he could observe others. Thus far, he had managed to remain unseen himself, but he was not certain how much longer such luck could last. Careless confidence in his safety had been his undoing once before, and Ondolindë with him.

If anyone actually looked for him, he would not be able to avoid notice. Occasionally the thought frightened him, but not enough to go back into the dark. Not without need. Maybe not at all. He’d only managed it the first time because he’d been so terrified that it had seemed better than the alternative. Besides, he told himself sternly whenever he had worried himself too badly on the subject, who would think to look for _him_?

He was not sure how long he had been there. Not as long as he had been in the dark. That much he felt to be true. But he had no way to mark the passing of time here anymore than he’d had in the darkness. At times he simply enjoyed the space and the light. But more often he peered out from the narrow windows, observing the other elves, trying to work out who they were, and what this place was.

Most of them looked like his father’s people, a few of more Evair, a very few Noldor. He might have been able to tell more had he been able to pluck up the courage to speak with any of them, but he did not trust himself that far. If they spoke among themselves, it was not loud enough for him to hear.

He had seen the girl with the light several times since she led him here. She came and went freely enough, though she was the only one who seemed to use the door that opened when she wished it. He wasn’t sure if that meant she was one of the kindred of Melian or if there was something else at work that the door appeared for her alone.

Once or twice, at quiet times when there were no others about, he had tried to examine the door. It was almost like the days before he’d been taken, when he could think and work. But he’d had no luck – when the girl with the light was not present, neither was her door. As far as he had been able to discover, that stretch of wall was no different than any other. To find out more, he’d have to talk to the girl.

He had attempted more than once to work up the nerve to approach her, for she clearly knew more about this place than he did, but what would he say? Even in his head, he could imagine no way to introduce himself that would go well. Who would wish to speak with the betrayer of Gondolin, a prince of the Noldor who had been unable to live up to Prince Maedhros’ fine example?

He did not deceive himself that he would be known as anything else. Sauron and Belegurth would have been only too happy to reveal his weakness. They had destroyed everything else, why leave his reputation intact? Probably even Itarillë hated him now. (He had to believe Turo had kept her and Eärendil alive. Not there was much Maeglin could do to him if he hadn’t – the mortal must be long dead by now.)

Whoever the girl was, she was well-liked. The elves he observed were always pleased to see her and speak with her. That was the other reason he had not tried to approach her – as far as he could tell, there was no reasonable chance he would be able to manage it unobserved. Too many others looked eagerly for her appearance, and sought to claim a few moments of her attention.

If she refused to converse with him when it was just the two of them, he felt he could bear it, but not the shame of public scorn and the revelation that he had been concealing himself among more worthy folk. He would surely be ostracized, and it would be no more than he deserved.

He had all but given up hope in that quarter when it happened.

The girl with the light had come again, though he did not think it had been very long since her last visit. But this time was different.

She left – but her door did not close properly behind her as it usually did. It remained open. The other elves in the hall seemed content to go about their business, almost as though they did not even notice it. None of them so much as glanced at it.

Maeglin could not restrain himself. Not when he could see sunlight – _real_ sunlight, not the weaker, filtered version that was the closest thing to it that existed here – beyond that arch, and hear birds singing. He was drawn irresistibly to the door, like iron filings to a magnet.

Birdsong was a sound he had not heard since he was captured. If the birds had still sung in Ondolindë when he returned as Sauron’s prisoner, he had no longer been able to hear them. Nor, he realized as he came closer – moving more swiftly as he did, suddenly fearing the door would close before he could reach it – had he noticed things like the blue of the sky or the warmth of the sun.

He nearly fled back to his hiding place when the Balan appeared. Whichever of the Powers it was, it could _not_ be Belegurth, he reasoned. The elves here now were not the miserable, damaged creatures they had been when the Enemy ruled here.

Even so, he was frightened. Melian would have been one thing – and he suddenly very much wanted to find her. She might understand what had happened, and perhaps she might be able to help him. But this one was entirely unknown to him.

Maeglin had a choice to make.

Had he stopped to think about it, the sensible decision would doubtless have been to go back to his sanctuary, to wait patiently for another opportunity. The girl with the light came often enough that this would surely not be the last time she forgot to seal her door properly. The next time he might be quicker.

But his feet, and perhaps something deep in his fëa, gave him no time for logical thought. They carried him over the threshold before his mind could muster logical arguments. It was a form of flight – hasty, without any courage whatsoever in it. But it was also a flash of hope, not unlike the first time he’d seen the girl with the light.

He made it just in time – he landed in an undignified heap, his confused and weakened legs giving out, leaving him sprawled just outside very solid walls.

The door was gone.

He looked around in bemusement. He was no part of Beleriand that he knew. Even allowing that there must have been enough time for the land to heal, it was nothing like he pictured the country anywhere near Angband to be.

That was when it hit him.

He could _feel_ again.

Whatever spell Sauron had placed on him at the end in Ondolindë had broken now that he was no longer within the Enemy’s fortress. He felt the ground beneath him, the air around him, and the sun on his face. He could smell the fresh, sweet fragrance of the grass, and hear the chatter of not just birds but animals and insects nearby.

It was all so _alive_.

To his surprise, Maeglin found himself weeping.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, sobbing with sheer relief at finally feeling himself a part of the world again. These were not the elegant, artistic tears he’d seen occasionally in masques in his uncle’s hall , but ugly, shuddering sobs that felt like all the feelings he’d been holding back all this time needed to come out now that he knew he was no longer in danger.

He wept so long that his tears began to panic him. He hadn’t cried like this even after his parents had died. Surely there could only be so many tears to shed? How much could a grown elf cry? Eventually, the unexpected storm of emotion tapered off, and after a few moments more to pull himself together, he thought he should move.

He should try to make his way to his kin.

With Gondolin gone, that meant Doriath, assuming it yet stood. Though if the Enemy had been defeated, it might well have a new name now. He had to believe that Menegroth had endured, but with no Enemy in the north, it would have no need for the Girdle. It would no longer be the Fenced Land, but the Free Land.

His breakdown – which, oddly, he felt the better for – meant he had lost sight of the girl, had she still been visible when he first passed out of her door.

Maeglin looked around, more curious about his surroundings now that he was starting to feel some confidence that he was safe and well.

After so long in darkness, and then in a hall where all color seemed muted, everything around him was impossibly bright. It was a green country as far as the eye could see, with gently rolling hills giving way to groves of trees in the distance. He could make out no sign of other elves, but the wall at his back carried on to the horizon in both directions. He thought it ran north and south, or very close to it, but he might not have oriented himself correctly.

Perhaps this was the Ered Mithrin? Or had he been carried far enough that it could be the Ered Luin? How big were the caverns of Angband?

He had no way to know. He would have to pick a direction and walk, and trust he would either find some clue as to where he was or cross paths with others who could tell him more.

Where to go?

He looked around again, and his eyes were drawn back to the trees.

Trees! There had been a few carefully tended stands in Tumladen, but nothing like the groves in the distance. That was enough to decide him. He wanted to be among trees again.

He looked down, belatedly wondering about his clothing. He hadn’t thought about it once all this time. It could not be the armor he had been wearing when he fell from the walls of the city – he didn’t believe anything he had worn then would have survived the landing. He’d probably been lucky if he’d had even rags left by the time his unconscious body came to rest.

He found that he was garbed in a loose tunic of a soothing gray, thankfully something simple as his father’s people preferred rather than the more complicated garments of the Noldor. His feet were bare, letting him feel the grass and the dirt, but he was wearing leggings, sturdy but soft.

He wondered when they had been given to him, not to mention by who, and why he couldn’t recall it. Sauron certainly wouldn’t have troubled about leaving him naked. Sauron had _enjoyed_ leaving him naked.

 He pushed the memories away. He might have voluntarily locked away much of the better parts of his life in his failed bid to protect his cousins and their city, but that was no reason he had to dwell on the worst part. (He often told himself that, and sometimes it even worked.)

There was sunshine here, and he could see trees. He focused on that, letting them fill his mind, crowding out everything else that threatened to undo his fragile balance. Then he set out for the nearest grove.

He reached the trees just before sunset, which was as well given that his legs were exhausted. He hadn’t moved so much since Gondolin. He touched the nearest leaves with shaking hands.

These trees were a variety he had never seen before, with silver-grey bark and golden flowers, and they were fond of elves. He could feel that he would be safe among them.

He found one with branches large enough for even one kin to both Nolofinwë and Thingol, and the height to show for it, to make himself comfortable, and curled up.  Though he had meant to watch the stars, he was so exhausted that he fell asleep almost at once, soothed by the gentle kiss of starlight on his face.


End file.
